


the morning after

by moaningmyrtle



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angry Sex, Jealous Connor, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 12:15:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6753403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moaningmyrtle/pseuds/moaningmyrtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was surprising, or maybe not as surprising as he'd wanted to believe, was that Oliver hadn't called. Fifty-seven days, and Connor had begun to wonder if he'd soon forget what shade his eyes were beneath those wide-rimmed glasses, the locations of every single dark-coloured freckle over his skin, what he sound like as he sung along in the car, laughed aloud as he watched TV in the other room, or how he'd whisper a gentle goodnight. </p><p>He didn't want to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a misconception at best. The idea that couples fall apart on account of a specific few reasons- they'd either lost the initial sense of overwhelming love, cheated, or lied. It was simple, black and white, and it always made sense. 

 

Everything remained very uncomplicated.

 

Reality could tear that fantasy from the hands of anyone who'd foolishly believed that a relationship was miraculously easier when you'd found your soul mate. As the sun fell towards the horizon somewhere outside a finger-smudged apartment window, Connor stared absently through the glass and counted all the ways that a soul mate could still break your heart.

 

 _'It's over,'_ He'd spoken monotonously that night, failing to understand yet the entirety of what had happened. Anger seemed to rattle beneath his bones, boiling over like a pot on the stove, growing so intense that it'd almost had a reverse effect- instead of yelling or screaming, throwing Oliver's clothes from the balcony or smashing something that had sentimental value, his brain had gone somewhat numb.

 

The only thought that it could register then was that the first man he'd ever confessed to loving, the one he'd both trusted and would've done anything to protect, had ruined their last chance at protection. For what- he wasn't entirely confident he knew.

 

Everything had come down to one solution- escape. Leave behind Philadelphia, Annalise, the firm, the school, the people who'd seen him bury a man and point a gun at the woman who'd taught them. For all that he'd been through, it'd finally gone further than Connor could bear, and his last hope had come in the form an acceptance letter.

 

 _'No,'_ Oliver had just shook his head, laughed it off like he'd told a funny joke and they'd soon be sitting down and starting on the untouched food on the kitchen table. Out of habit, he'd adjusted his lenses while gesturing to Connor's laptop. It was his tone, so casual, that was making it harder for Connor to remain calm until he was out, _'No, it's- I'm telling you because I think you should call back, and I'm sure they'll understand. Just- I'll call, and explain. Everything's fine.'_

 

It was funny the way that everyone had a different method of coping with panic, and in Oliver's case, he'd decided to curtain his anxiety with a mask of 'it's fine,' and 'don't worry about it.' They both knew that Stanford didn't wait around for a second confirmation, and that with the very limited amount of space they'd kept to accept students, he would've lost his chance days ago. The physical copy that he'd rushed home with, the one that must've been mailed out before Oliver had declined the offer, was sitting half-open on the counter; they both flashed a glance at it.

 

 _'Stop,'_ Oliver had tried so hard to continue with that sense of nonchalance, following Connor through the apartment and into their bedroom. When Connor had begun to cram an outfit into a school bag, his attitude finally dampened, and he placed an unsteady hand over his shoulder, _'Are you listening to me? Stop, come on.'_

 

 _'You have no idea,'_ Connor wasn't looking at him when he'd responded, beyond livid and aware that if he were to turn around and meet Oliver's puppy-dog eyes, he'd lose the only composure he'd formed through a temper-induced adrenaline. It was during that rush that it only seemed necessary to shove a few important things into a bag, _'No idea what you've done.'_

 

In Oliver's defence, he didn't know the honest truth behind why it was so important that they flee the city, didn't know about Phillip in the way that Connor did, didn't know about all the crime he'd done behind closed doors. In his own defense, it didn't matter the reason because what he'd ruined wouldn't have been okay in a normal circumstance, even if they were just a couple of kids without a murderous history or a dirty record.

 

What he'd been avoiding saying aloud was no longer avoidable, the only thing that would've been a display of guilt and admittance that he'd actually done something wrong. It was only as Connor had reached the door, his expression stone cold, jaw shut tight and teeth grinding, that Oliver gave in and began to plead, _'I'm sorry, okay? Don't leave, not right now. I said I'm-'_

_'Don't call,'_ It was all that Connor could force out before he'd pushed open the door, and the knob felt colder beneath his fingers than it ever had before, the hallway emptier and quieter than he'd remembered. What spilled from his lips wasn't meant to be as hard as it had surely sounded, but despite the anger, he'd just needed to assure that Oliver was safe, _'Not just me, don't try to talk to any of us. Just- don't.'_

 

It'd been almost two months, more specifically fifty seven days, of considering every reason that Oliver might've considered that a reasonable course of action- nothing had come to mind. What had instead come to mind, or more so infiltrated his every waking thought, was everything that he'd ached for, and everything that he couldn't have. Every soft spoken whisper in his ear, Oliver's fingers threaded between his own, the scent of his cologne and where it was strongest just above the collar of his button-down work shirts, the same shirt he'd unbuttoned day after day, slow and sweet each time.

 

Another cliché, the one having been left behind was the one who'd lost it all. What wasn't regarded was the other side, and Connor wondered whether he deserved to feel so empty. After what he'd said, the way he'd run off without bothering to argue or fight, walking from Oliver and ignoring the way his own cheeks had become damp as he did so. It wasn't his choice to miss out on Stanford, but he had made the decision that had followed- stubborn and prideful, he hadn't gone back for one moment, only patiently waited for that phone call.

 

What was surprising, or maybe not as surprising as he wanted to believe, was that Oliver hadn't called. Fifty-seven days, and Connor had begun to wonder if he'd soon forget what shade his eyes were beneath those wide-rimmed glasses, the locations of every single dark-coloured freckle over his skin, what he sound like as he sung along in the car, laughed aloud as he watched TV in the other room, or how he'd whisper a gentle goodnight. 

 

He didn't want to forget.

 

Only, that wasn't completely possible. Not if you'd taken into consideration the short video on Connor's phone that they'd filmed when they'd thought the camera was taking a picture, when they'd thought that it was just the two of them. A second or so passed while they'd grinned at the screen, their gaze quickly falling onto the other, leaning in for a short-lived kiss; they'd only noticed it was a video when they'd finally looked over with realization, and Oliver had laughed and mumbled a soft, 'Keep it.'

 

He'd kept it, as such, and he'd watched it each and every night while his dreams had refused to take control.

 

Unable to sleep much after the sun fell, it felt as though Oliver might as well have been his blanket, his pillow, the entire damn mattress. Ever since, it seemed Connor could have been trying to sleep on the cold, hard ground of a barn- it would've made no difference. The last two seconds of the video was the camera pulling in close to their faces, and Connor couldn't help but notice his own smile before they'd ended the scene; it was a smile he couldn't remember much these last few weeks, didn't feel as though it even existed any more.

 

"Are you- You’re going out?"

 

The monotonous noises of city traffic and shuffling papers had been on a fast path to driving Connor insane, or more so than he already felt. It wasn't much of a shock that sulking around hadn't helped with the sense of lunacy, but of course, he knew that it wouldn't. Pushing himself up from the couch that he'd been planted on for nearly an hour, Michaela's eyes shot up- she'd most likely forgotten he'd been sitting there.

 

They shared a stare, concern etched across her soft expression as she peered up from the massive amounts of paper spread out over the table. There was a question sitting idle behind her pursed lips that they both knew she was trying to phrase in a way that didn't sound pathetic, and it was soon obvious that she'd come up with nothing, "Did you- I mean, do you need me to come?"

 

Through Connor's perspective, he was decompressing. From a break up that still didn't quite seem real, from the previous threat of prison, from all the criminal activity he'd been unwillingly involved in and everything he'd seen that could potentially scar a person for life. In the perspective of Michaela, he'd come down with a case of something that therapists liked to refer to as depression, and she'd been treating him accordingly.

 

"As always, I'm fine," He'd answered, his eyes rolling while he continued to search the room for a missing wallet, wanting nothing but to escape this conversation. It wasn't as if Michaela hadn't noticed he'd failed to go out, not since the night he'd moved in, claiming that he'd only be in her spare room for a week at most and yet he was still there.

 

There'd been a few offers to go out on dates, mostly blind, and more than a few that didn't require a nice meal, a fifty dollar bill, or anything more than a call to someone else's bed. It wasn't as if he hadn't had the chances, he'd just had good excuses. Studying for an exam, working on a case, down with the flu, slept in late- they all sounded better than truth.

 

"Connor, hold on," Michaela set down the pencil she'd been using to scribble notes, notes that Connor should've been worried about. It took her a moment to fester the courage to ask, glancing down nervously at the pocket in which he'd stuffed his cellphone into, "Did Oliver message you?"

 

"Don’t."

 

The air around him suddenly held weight. It was those six letters that could cause his pulse to quicken, his heart hammering instantly beneath his ribcage. It was a name that he'd been pretending didn't exist outside of his thoughts, and they both knew he'd made it clear that it was his intention to keep it that way. Sounding hoarse and harsher than he'd intended, Connor cleared his throat and attempted to fence off an oncoming cold sweat, "I'm going out for a drink- shouldn't you stay here, study? You can tutor me, when you've read through the entire eight-hundred pages."

 

"Just- call me, if you need a ride home," She'd tended to resemble an overbearing mother ever since he'd knocked on her door the night they'd broken it off, always flashing him kind and sympathetic glances, as if he'd just been rejected for prom and she wasn't sure how to cheer him up. A half-hearted smile caught his eye as he headed towards the door, "I'll be around."

 

"Unnecessary," Connor mumbled while he'd walked out, the same hint of regret pinching at him every time he treated her like she'd been doing something wrong.

 

It wasn't as though her sympathy was misplaced, no matter how much he'd wished that it was; the break up, the one he'd been silently denying had ever happened, had left Connor with very little motivation. Skipping more classes than any university student should, eating less and drinking more, refusing to answer calls and neglecting the fact that he'd have to find his own place- it was, as he'd decided, his personal process.

 

The temperature had fallen below ten and a chill nipped at his ears, at his nose, and it felt as though the ten minute walk was suddenly much longer. With quick steps and a sheer determination to find his own smile once more, he'd pushed against the wind until he'd round the corner he knew so well.

 

"Connor," Someone standing outside the shack-like building had waved with a cigarette burning between their fingers, a bartender he'd recognized as the same man who'd once served Oliver and him drinks every Friday night. There was a look caught between confusion and understanding stuck on his face, shivering from the cold and gesturing him to beneath the light, "Hey- how're you doing, man?"

 

"Harry, hey," Connor shot back a smirk that felt anything but genuine, reaching up to brush back the bed-head that he'd forgotten to tidy before he'd left the apartment. For a few moments, he tried to deduce why the bartender looked distracted by a train of though that it didn't seem like he was planning to explain, "You guys busy tonight?"

 

"Uh," Harry peered back through the glass in the door, back to where the lights were dimmed and the faint sound of chatter could be heard from outside, "Yeah, not bad."

 

They both shared a charitable grin before he headed in, pushing open the doors and searching the bar from a distance for an open stool. There was two taken by an older couple, two empty, one occupied by a man with a sleek black shirt and kind eyes. And to his right, flashing a wide smile that curled towards rosy cheeks and crinkled eyes, was Oliver.

 

In that moment, it became very clear that Connor would never forget what he looked like.


	2. Chapter 2

Every part of his body felt as though it had sunken beneath the floor. There was no air pumping through his lungs, no beat where there should've been a working heart, and his stomach was somewhere caught between a flip and a knot. It was almost instantaneous, the realization dawning on Connor that he'd made an enormous mistake.

 

It wasn't a stranger sitting aside him at the counter, that becoming clear when a stray hand slid atop Oliver's knee for a brief moment, and Connor couldn't pretend any longer that he'd hadn't been living in denial.

 

Ever since he'd left their apartment with a bag over his shoulder and a lump lodged in his throat, somewhere in the back of his mind told him that it wasn't permanent. It was denial that had led him to believe that if he spent every night scrolling through pictures and pretending like they'd be grinning at the camera together again soon. Denial had forced him into the concept that if he waited long enough, that his phone would ring and they'd be soon filling the empty hole that Oliver's absence had dug. 

 

How horrible it was to realize that denial was only a stage before acceptance, and Connor would find it a near impossible challenge to accept whoever it was that had just caused Oliver's cheeks to rise with warmth and a light-hearted laugh to slip from his lips. It all resembled a scene from his own nightmare, only there wasn't a chance he'd wake up any minute, and pinching himself wasn't going to bring this to an end.

 

If there were any undefined phases between denial and acceptance, they would surely be jealousy, outrage, and forming a badly-constructed plan.

 

Where Connor's feet had frozen beyond his control, they'd begun to lead the way before his brain had decided what he was doing and if it was rational. It was behind a coat rack that he'd hidden himself from the bar for a moment, and although it wasn't busy nor crowded, Oliver was too distracted to notice a thing. The room echoed with his laughter, contagious and flirtatious, and he'd never before wanted him to stop like he did now.

 

Unjustified pangs of betrayal prodded at his heart, and there was a nagging part of his mind that might as well have been represented by a tiny red devil on his shoulder, whispering maniacally into his ear, _'he's yours.'_

 

In this scenario, however, there was no conflicting angel to argue any sense of morality, condemn the red-winged monster, lecture that it's idealizations were all wrong. It wasn't shocking to say that Connor didn't need an angel to realize that the bitter thoughts in his mind were anything but principled- the miniature devil would clap if he were there.

 

Feeling personally antagonized by a man that couldn't much know he existed, there was an idea mutating in his mind so quickly that he didn't stop to reconsider, no time to think it over because this might've been his only chance. The stranger had leaned in and mumbled something in Oliver's ear so that only he could hear, the sight causing Connor's fists to curl.

 

"Fuck it," Connor mumbled to himself, and started towards a table- he wasn't about to leave like he'd seen nothing, couldn’t even if he'd convinced himself that it was the right thing to do.

 

Oliver wouldn't have missed him if he were wearing only black and the lights had gone out. They'd caught each other's gaze in no less than half a second, emotions flooding only through the look that had changed across his face- it was one he'd grown to read well, the small pull at his thick eyebrows a sign of confusion, the twitch of his lip a habit of Oliver's whenever he'd become nervous, a reach to his lenses a clutch whenever he'd been made uncomfortable or uneasy.

 

The date, clueless and oblivious, didn't notice the way that Oliver's smile slid from his face without reason, his blush transitioning into a deep scarlet red that travelled down his neck, over his chest. Neither had torn their eyes away, and Connor's heart was beating faster than a doctor would consider medically sound, a tremble travelling to his hands as he pulled a chair away from the table and continued to spy from a distance. From the outside, he was sure he'd appeared wholly fine.

 

'Sorry,' He could see him mouthing to his date, faking a smile as if to assure him that nothing was wrong, and for a moment he wondered if that was true. From what Connor could deduce without seeming overly interested, they'd shared a small, quiet conversation before the other man had lifted his palm to brush against Oliver's jaw- it felt like a small victory to note that he'd shrugged away from the tender touch.

 

One more look over the shoulder of his date, shot directly at Connor, caught him by surprise. It wasn't hard to deduce, Oliver sliding off the stool and gestured to the bathroom, that it wasn't an invitation for the man sitting beside him. The date had nodded with a cheery but polite smile, and watched with a pathetically doe-eyed stare while he'd walked off with brisk steps on shaking knees.

 

A few feet behind, Connor trailed him until they'd both found themselves in an empty men's restroom.

 

"What the fuck," Oliver sounded as though he couldn't find the breath to coerce words to form, not often one to swear, white knuckles wrapped atop the edge of the sink. Leaning over the porcelain like it was his only hope at stability, a second passed while he attempted to regain some sense of composure, scanning the entirety of Connor's body standing motionless in the doorway, "I was-"

 

"On a date," Connor spoke through a low drawl, and that previous hint of selfish craving had blown into something much worse, turned into a sort-of need that couldn't be overlooked. A similar glance followed Oliver from toes to lips, and there was panic caught behind Oliver's eyes that was slowly being woven with a feeling that might've mutual.

 

"What're you doing?" 

 

The softly spoken question, laced with a vague sense of frustration, was followed by a frown- nothing deliberate nor obvious but the smile he'd been sporting was surely long gone. Yet, Connor was busy fighting the urge to blurt out all the things he'd been aching to say, things that had been stifled now for weeks on end. I miss you, I still love you, I never stopped loving you, I'm an absolute mess without you.

 

I might just forgive you.

 

"It's nice to see you," Connor decided on the most-appropriate confession, ignoring the fact that he hadn't answered the question at all. They both were, in a sense, glaring at the other, and it wasn't any surprise that Oliver was clearly angry. Apart from the tension that was growing faster than a weed, they'd been sharing the familiar spark of a flame beneath their skin, one that they both knew had always been near impossible to dampen. Taking a slow step closer, his gaze softened and eyebrow rose, "And, I came to get a drink."

 

"Well, I'll let you get back to that," He'd finally torn his gaze away, forcing noise through gritted teeth- there was something that he wasn't saying aloud, something they both weren't. Blocking his path, Oliver stormed towards the door before he was inches from where their lips would meet, and waited for Connor to move aside.

 

"Ollie-"

 

Oliver's eyes met Connor's and they burned with betrayal, only he'd moved even closer, possibly in an attempt at intimidate but the spark hadn't yet wavered, "You don't get to call me that anymore."

 

That should've been it, they should've both walked away and avoided eye contact as they finished a drink and went home, feeling both a little hurt and possibly drunk. Neither moved, however, because that flame still hadn't been put out. Before they'd spoken another word or accepted defeat, it'd caught ablaze like a wildfire.

 

"Damn it, Connor," Oliver's hand wrapped around the back of his neck, fingers running through his hair, and staggered breath had been muffled as their lips came together, caught between violent and passionate. After a half minute, red in the face and both mutually flustered, he'd jumped back and stared up at Connor with wide-eyes behind crooked glasses, "I have to go-"

 

The satisfaction hadn't landed, and his fingers twitched for more; before he'd had the chance to finish his argument, Connor was pushing him back with his lips pressed against Oliver's, pushing him until they'd ended up inside a stall. With the hand that wasn't resting beneath an untucked button-down, he reached behind and shut the door with a heavy thud.

  
"Oliver," Connor was near-panting, his lips reaching Oliver's neck, teeth just barely tugging on the soft skin beneath his jaw. Moans slipped out and it was the sweetest noise he'd ever heard, quiet because they were hiding but desperate, as if he'd been dreaming about this too, "Oliver, I-"

 

"Don't," Oliver's moan was cut short, hand reaching down to where Connor's belt was tight around his waist and cupping his palm, "Don't say anything, just-"

 

It didn't have to be said twice. In a second, Connor was kissing him again, slamming him roughly against the side of the stall as if they'd been caught between sex and wrestling. Before Oliver had the chance to undo his belt, he'd grabbed his wrists and lifted them above his head, silencing his complaints as they're kiss deepened, and both silently noted that they'd be walking out with overly swollen lips.

 

"It's on me," Connor smirked, the type of smile he'd flash whenever he'd been about to do something headstrong or mischievous, like the villain in a superhero movie. Only, he'd act the villain that made the audience drool and question their own integrity. In a moment, he'd both let go of his pinned wrists and dropped to his knees, no hesitation as he lowered.

 

"Connor, it's-"

 

He'd been about to complain about the quality of the sticky floor, add that there was a foot beneath the stall where anyone could see, but Connor didn't wait and listen. With a swift motion and years of practice, he'd tugged down Oliver's dress pants that sat loose around his slim hips and his grin drew wider as they fell to his shoes. With a dirty laugh, he looked up from below, "I'll be quick."

 

If Connor were being honest, this was enough.

 

The mere fact that Oliver was unable to speak, tongue tied because there wasn't anything to say that could describe it, was more than enough. Whoever was sitting at the bar surely couldn't have made him bite down on his tie in order to stifle a groan that would've sounded throughout the entire bar.

 

In Connor's mind, he'd won.

 

Aside from the sheer contentment, Oliver's face had been haunting every thought of his for weeks on end, pushing him near insanity, and now he was watching his expression twist and tighten in complete desperation for both less and more.

 

"I'm-" Oliver's voice was caught amidst a whimper, and Connor hadn't stopped when he'd spoke, wouldn't slow down when his fingers pulled at his hair and knees shook with absolute euphoria. The gratification had only encouraged him, but there was something about the last whine that managed to slip through the fabric of his tie that made it clear he couldn't last, "Oh, I-"

 

Gasps filled the stall with noise as Oliver rested against the wall, at a loss for both breath and anything to say at all. It took Connor a moment to brush back his hair, fix his clothing, and stand back up. They hadn't much cared before about kissing after such an act, but he'd leaned in with an elated grin and found that there was no return.

 

"I'm on a date, Connor," Oliver wasn't smiling in response, didn't kiss him back, barely even had looked him in the eyes. With a shuffle, he'd lifted his pants back up and hastily tucked the shirt beneath the waist line, and before he'd so much as muttered a thank you, he was unlatching the stall and leaving him panting alone while he watched him retreat to the sink.

 

On his heels, Connor hesitated a moment before a quiet laugh slipped from his lips- he leaned against the sink to his right and looked over, as if he couldn’t believe that Oliver was acting so serious, "What- you mean, you're really going to go back out there right now? You've got to be kidding, Oll-Oliver."

 

A stream of water splashed against Oliver's smooth skin, the chill of the liquid causing the redness to fade from his cheeks and chest. Looking up, they met each other's stare through the mirror's reflection, and while Connor was sporting a look of hope, he was met with a cold expression and a tight lipped frown.

 

"Why wouldn't I?"

 

He'd never acted like this, so calm that it had reached a level of eeriness, and Connor couldn't help but wonder if this is how Oliver had felt on the night he'd left without so much as a goodbye hug. A dreaded memory came rushing back to him without warning, crushing his mood and his spirit, replacing it with a guilt that reminded him of every reason Oliver had to act upset.

 

"Yeah, no," Connor mumbled, clearly taken aback but not about to start a deeply minded discussion in the public bathroom of a dingy bar. With a forced smile, small and timid, one that he didn't often find himself displaying, he nodded and stepped away from the sink, "Shit, I guess I'll see you around."

 

The harshness to Oliver's blank stare was forcing his stomach into a knot once more, feeling somewhat sick and the taste in his mouth suddenly wasn't as sweet- he wanted a beer, or, something easier and quicker so that he could leave this place behind and pretend that he'd ever thought it was a good idea to show up.

 

Before he'd had the chance to say anything in response, or more likely ignore his comment altogether, Connor was heading out while forcing himself not to look back. Making a b-line for the bar, he knocked on the wood and tapped his foot against the ground. The bartender shot him a dirty look but it didn't phase him, nothing could after what he still didn't quite understand had just happened, "Two shots- Sambuca."

 

The short glass hadn't yet landed in front of him and Connor was already setting down a five dollar bill, nodding for another as he reached out and let the liquor slip through his lips. It was a burn down his throat that didn't hurt nearly as much as the images swirling in his mind, because Oliver hadn't looked angry, sad, confused- he looked as though every emotion had just disappeared.

 

While the bartender had set down a second, Connor went to reach for it but found himself distracted by a voice, kind and gentle, a few seats away. The date had waited, although they hadn't been that long, and he gazed over his shoulder just in time to catch the wide smile that had beamed at the sight, "There you are, was starting to think you'd crawled out a window- you ready to head out?"

 

There was still a drop of water on Oliver's chin from where he'd cooled himself down with the bathroom tap, and barely a corner of his shirt was untucked from his pants; he looked off-center, but the sight of his date appeared to have brought him back to reality. It was almost undeniable that the man he'd sat with was a sweetheart, wrapped in some sort of cashmere sweater with neat blonde hair and a soft, soothing voice. As if to make it even harder to despise his presence, he stood up and Connor instantly noticed that he'd been wearing scrubs.

 

"Yeah, I am," He heard Oliver respond and saw the quick nod, brushing back still-tangled hair and steadying his breathing enough so that he didn't appear suspicious. With his fingers wrapped around the shot, Connor couldn't tear his eyes away, watching with a tight jaw as they walked out together, mumbling sweet nothings through the bar and towards the door. It wasn't until the other man had stepped through that Oliver finally looked back, only for one short moment, and he took the chance then to let the glass tip against his lips.

 

He hadn't won a thing.

 


	3. Chapter 3

A primal part of who Connor felt he was had changed when they'd met, and it was completely twisted when he'd fallen in love.

 

The first time they'd spent the night together, entangled limbs and embarrassing snores and neither crept from the room the next day. When they'd dressed nice and gone out for a reserved dinner, flowers in the back seat and gel in their hair, laughing because it was so cliché. Moving his boxes into Oliver's apartment, planning their lives around the other, finding happiness in codependency. It all became steps towards the end.

 

In that time, he'd left behind the part of him that refused to love anyone, because he knew now more than ever- love took caring about someone, worrying when they didn't come home or fretting when they'd picked up a bad cold, revolving your life around someone other than yourself. It also meant that you missed them when they weren't around, that hurting them hurt you even more, and that jealousy was an awful, painful ordeal.

 

"'Chaela," Connor was leaning against the wall outside the apartment door, an hour past midnight and aware that it was too late to be acting so obnoxious. Only, he'd lost the ability to censor what was inappropriate after the fourth shot, rapping his knuckles against the surface until it opened and she was ushering him inside.

 

"What-" Michaela shook her head, swaddled in a bed robe and he looked around- all the lights were on, the television still playing, and he realized she'd stayed up to wait, "Is- are you okay?"

 

"Was on a date," Connor muttered, slurring his words together while he stumbled over the carpet with dirty shoes and tossed himself down on the couch cushions. The television was stuck on the news, and he tried for a moment to concentrate his foggy view on the screen.

 

"Who- you?"

 

"No," Connor could feel a lump rising up his throat, a tightness to his jaw because the feelings he'd been drinking down all night were beginning to creep through the tough exterior. For a moment, he contemplated denying this as well, but admitting it aloud might make that impossible, "Oliver- he was with someone, at the bar."

 

"Oh," Michaela rested next to where he'd thrown himself down into the cushions, looking over with that same look of sympathy that he was getting so used to, and so sick of. It was, however, admittedly comforting to feel her palm wrap around his ankle as they sat in silence for a minute or two, Connor struggling to keep his composure while she continued, "I'm really sorry, Con."

 

"Don't be," He mumbled into where he'd pressed his face into a brightly decorated throw cushion, and Michaela was listening intently, this being the first time they'd brought him up at all. It'd hurt to say his name before, even more so now, but Connor's reasoning had been affected by the alcohol and thoughts were spilling out before he could quiet himself, "I'm the one who walked away, wasn't I? I just thought, I don’t know, maybe I should've-"

 

"You thought," Michaela was sober, understanding, and not one to hold back her opinion, "That he'd wait for you."

 

It was a horrible, selfish thing to think, but she was right. They'd hit rough patches before, but it'd always worked itself out, they'd always found their way back to each other. So far from what was familiar this time, it'd been two months without contact and Oliver had been spending his nights going on dates with handsome men in cashmere sweaters and smiles just as kind as his own; the image of the two blushing at each other was burned into Connor's memory, and he absently wondered how long it'd haunt him.

 

"Did you talk to him?"

 

Very little conversation had been made, but their lips moved with different intentions.

 

Looking back, the short time they'd spent in a locked-up bathroom stall seemed like anything other than a happy memory, no before or after. There was a subconscious desire within Connor to do anything that might deter Oliver from continuing his date, but that wasn't what had happened. Rather than win back his affection, Oliver had taken the five minutes of pleasure and left without so much as a 'thank you,' like he'd regret the decision the second they'd finished.

 

"They were on their way out," Connor lied, ignoring the anvil set heavy on his heart and an overwhelming sickness that wasn't due to the alcohol; it seemed as though there was nothing left he could do and that wasn't satisfying at all, "What would- what would I say?"

 

"What do you want to say?"

 

Not a word that he wanted to say would've been applicable, because after all, it was Connor who'd put an end to everything they'd so perfectly built. I need you back beneath my sheets, I'm so cold without you- he'd left the bed first. I can't function without you- he didn't have to, until he'd made the decision that they'd live better apart. I didn't want to go to Stanford anyways, I was just scare to put you in danger- then why had he been so mad?

 

-

 

Sleep had recently become a foreign concept, and tonight, it was verging on impossible. Every light in the apartment had been shut off after Michaela had gone to bed, all but a dimly lit overhead lamp that Connor had bent towards the papers on the kitchen table. With tired arms and drowsy eyes, he sifted through all the work that Michaela had already done, forcing his mind to concentrate on his forgotten studies.

 

The only noise was shuffling files and a hollow tick with each passing second, a clock on the wall that Connor found himself glaring up at and wondering how much trouble he'd get in if she'd woke up and found it'd been thrown out the window.

 

As he reached for a paper regarding something called 'joint liability,' a phrase he'd related to the situation between him and Oliver, a vibration on the counter brought his attention elsewhere. Curling around the back of the dining chair, Connor was blatantly peeking to see who was calling Michaela this late- he'd suspected Asher, although she'd deny it until the day she was buried, but her phone wasn't lit up at all.

 

A few inches beside the blank screen, Connor's cellphone danced enthusiastically over the marble surface while it continued to vibrate, three in the morning and probably causing Michaela to stir in her sleep. 

 

"Uh," Connor mumbled aloud, looking around in a slight panic- was it family, was someone hurt? Jumping from the chair and sending a few papers flying, he slid his phone against his ear and whispered into the speaker, "Hey?"

 

A moment of silence, just breathing, and then a familiar voice rang through the speaker, "I know it's late."

 

Connor found his breath hitched with the realization that he'd desperately missed even the phone calls, when he'd ring to check up on him half way through a work day or ask what he should bring home for dinner; he'd forgotten that his cellphone did more than tell the time, and provide a distraction from everything else.

 

"Oliver? Is everything-"

 

"I'm fine," Oliver cut him off, as though he knew that Connor would immediately assume the worst had happened. A second or two passed before he'd continued, voice slightly shaking, "About earlier, I think I owe you one."

 

"Look, it didn't mean anything," Connor was telling a lie before he'd realized what it might be interpreted as- their short time together had meant more than anything had in months, but not in the way it was supposed to. A blow job in a bathroom stall doesn't exactly say, 'I miss you,' but more so, 'I miss what's beneath those tightly fitting dress pants.' Everything about Oliver was what he'd missed, but there wasn't a chance to admit that with his mouth preoccupied and a date awaiting outside the door. 

 

"I know," Oliver answered, slightly cold in the tone he'd responded with but he wasn't hanging up yet, didn't end the conversation before he'd asked the one question that Connor was both hoping for and sure it wouldn't come, "Could you drive over? I just- I'm not finished."

 

"What? I mean, shit, I'll be there in ten minutes," Connor had forgot to whisper, a building anticipation causing him to brush off the fact that Michaela was trying to sleep a room over; her door didn't open, "Are you sure?"

 

"Are you sure it didn't mean anything?"

 

Connor's lips parted to tell him that it wasn't meant to feel so meaningless, but a nagging thought in the back of his mind noted that Oliver didn't care about that- he just wanted to do it again. Shaking off the need to ask questions, he hurried towards the door while slipping a pair of sneakers over his bare feet; the quicker he was out, the sooner everything might seem okay, maybe even normal again.

 

"Be there soon," The door shut behind him, a little too loud but he was rushing down the hallway, shoving his phone back in his pocket and digging for his car keys instead. Whatever this was, whatever they were doing, it had to be better than trying to ignore with the sore throb where his heart used to be.


	4. Chapter 4

When you’re young, you don’t understand that home has a smell, somewhat of an essence. You pack up and leave for college, and when Thanksgiving comes around, you step through your parents front door and suddenly there's a scent that reminds you of childhood, growing up, crawling into your Mom's bed and listening to Dad complain about the news.

 

It felt the same as Connor tip toed into Oliver's dimly lit apartment, it felt as though he'd finally come home. A whiff brought back memories that him like a gust of wind, relentless in their persistence while he struggled not to find him self lost in the reflection. 

 

The shadow of a silhouette broke through the dark, city lights pouring through the window and highlighting Oliver's features- he stood, staring over at Connor with a half-smile, although his eyes held rings of red and there was exhaustion lining his moon lit skin.

 

For a short moment, Connor pretended that it hadn't all fallen to dust and the day had been just another day, Oliver waiting up for him to return from work. When they'd met each other's eyes, it became apparent that his imagination couldn't stretch so far- thousands of unspoken questions were caught behind tight lipped smiles and tied tongues.

 

"I didn't think I'd see you again," Connor admitted, heart pounding as he reached down to slip his sneakers from his feet; there was no rule book on what was out of bounds, on what would push the limit, on what the hell it was that they were doing. If life was supposed to remain black and white, Oliver and Connor were deeply lost in the forbidden grey.

 

Taking a few small steps toward him, Oliver seemed nervous even in his own apartment, what was once their apartment. They'd spent so much time together inside these four white-painted walls that it seemed strange to be acting so cautious, and yet, nothing felt casual. A shake to his tone brought Connor's eyes up from the floor, "I- I wanted to see you, so that I could return the favor."

 

If he'd wanted to see him for any other reason, would that have been so wrong? The question lingered in Connor's thoughts while he pushed his shoes to the wall, because maybe it was as simple as the need to see Oliver's smile, to hear his voice or touch his skin, maybe it was for those reasons that he wanted to see him too.

 

"You were busy," Trying to be polite despite the burning jealousy beneath his chest, despite the knowledge that Oliver had left the bar with another man, despite the fact that said image had been poking at his sanity for the last five hours, Connor shrugged and ran unsteady fingers through his knotted hair, "I shouldn't have-"

 

Whatever he was going to say, Connor wasn’t sure himself, was cut short by Oliver's lips on his neck as he took the last step between them. Warm hands lifted his shirt, crept beneath the fabric and sent bolts across his skin, lifting bumps along his arms. A moan, small but needy, slipped out; it was something that he didn't control, that he didn't want to.

 

"You don’t have to," Connor was barely able to force words, had been craving the familiar touches that were caressing the small of his back, the curves of his shoulders, the sweet perfume of Oliver so close to his body now. It would've been perfect if there wasn't a hounding thought in the back of his mind, tormenting him with the knowledge that this wasn't exactly what he'd hoped for. This was only part of Oliver, the physical part, a part that he'd desperately ached for but it wasn't enough to fill the Oliver-sized hole in his heart- if he didn't stop, there'd be no time to talk, to listen, to _fix._

 

They could discuss over a late-night pot of coffee, turn on the radio and lean against the kitchen counter like they used to, absently listening to nearby traffic and sharing things like they hadn't with any other; maybe Oliver had shared those stories now, but with someone else. If anything, they might fall back into bed and tangle themselves beneath the sheets, but even without a rule book, Connor understand what would categorize as too-personal.

 

Staring back at him as they pulled away for a moment, Connor was trying to decipher what Oliver was thinking, wanted nothing more than to read his mind, creep through every crevice of his thoughts and find the answers he was looking for. It seemed now that Oliver was a brick wall, a devilish wall that was looking up at him as he lowered to his knees and began to unbuckle, tearing him away from everything else.

 

"Close your eyes," Oliver spoke in a low whisper, pressing his smudged glasses back into dark hair as his tongue darted quickly along his bottom lip- it was daunting to think that he'd been without this for months, near maddening to wonder once again if it'd be the last time.

 

For only minutes long, Connor's mind was silent from jealousy, confusion, frustration. Instead, he lifted the glasses from where Oliver had pushed them a top his head and let them fall to the carpet, tangling his fingers in his hair instead, tugging just barely. Wishing he could live forever in the moment, he indulged in the gasps and groans, the soft noises that involuntarily slipped from Oliver as they lost themselves in the middle of the dark room.

 

It was in these moments that they built fire. They'd both felt it many times before, the flames that rose up as they whispered sweet nothings, so close that they'd shared warmth, trembles rippling through every bone, every muscle, caught in euphoria. They'd never been bad at this- communication, maybe, but not this.

 

"Ollie," He'd moaned aloud, and it'd echoed through the apartment. For a moment, he'd expected it all to come to an abrupt end, because it was Oliver now, he'd lost his right to use names formed from affection. Instead, he'd quickened his pace- Connor couldn't hold back, unable to control the volume at which he began to beg, to praise him simply through his grunts and groans because Oliver knew that it meant the fire had only grown.

 

They'd never stopped trying to impress, but it was different this time, as if Oliver was handling him differently. It wasn't like they were touching lazy in bed, laughing and smiling and acting as they had all the time in the world; this was a late night call, and it was being treated as such, just as it had when they'd met in the stall. Quick, dirty, and to the point.

 

A final cry broke through Connor's lips, and Oliver sat back on his heels, lifting a hand to his mouth to wipe a mark from his chin.

 

It happened quickly after that, the realization that Connor had already been replaced. While he struggled to regain some sense of composure, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness now, he began to really look around the room. With his gaze darting to all the places that his presence once lived, that he'd once loved as his own.

 

The thin cotton blanket that had once been draped over the back of the couch, the one they'd bought at the market, wasn't there; he'd picked it out only because Oliver had commented on how soft it had been, how nice it would be to lie beneath it together. There was a sweater draped over the hook that previously had been reserved, a plaid jacket that he didn't recognize as either of theirs hung as though it'd belonged there. Where they'd placed frames that captured moments they'd spent together were now sitting bare, replaced by meaningless objects, books and clocks and the absence of the time they'd had.

 

Beside the television, a short stack of DVD's, an unopened bag of popcorn, a bottle of what he knew wasn't lotion- he'd meant to spend the night with the man from the bar, for what was probably not the first time.

 

"Connor," Oliver was watching where his eyes had travelled, speaking cautiously as if he had any reason to feel guilty. The look on Connor's face had contorted, his expression unreadable while the silence brought along a momentary tension, "I'm-"

 

"Don't be sorry," Connor didn't intentionally sound as angry as it'd come off, because he wasn't mad, not at Oliver. The rage was aimed towards himself and only him, he'd done this, he'd brought them to this point with a stubborn attitude and childish attempt to make his point.

 

Crossing the room, he headed towards where he'd stacked unwatched movies and grabbed the small bottle from where it was sitting conveniently beside the package of a condom that wasn't the type that they'd used before. Envious of the man who would've used this if Connor hadn't come, he picked that up too, catching Oliver's absolute confusion as he turned back, "What- what are you doing?"

 

"If this is going to be our last time, why don't we make it count?"

 

Adrenaline was rushing through Connor' body, the jealousy causing his mind to race and his head to spin, as though he was wasted on whatever this feeling was. There was an unfamiliar sense of desire overwhelming his every thought, something selfish and possessive, something that shouldn't have been so powerful- it was similar to the way he'd felt at the bar, only stronger, more insistent. It was forcing him to prove his worth, to show Oliver that he was still there, that he shouldn't be so easy to replace.

 

Joining him on the carpet, he lead Oliver onto his back and crawled over him, straddling his sides and lifting his wrists above his head. The apartment so quiet and Oliver's beating heart so loud, Connor couldn't help but note the pace at which it'd sped up, quicker with each second that he teased him with nips on the neck, below the ear, along his jaw. They hadn't kissed much when he'd walked in, but he wasn't holding back now.

 

Passion was something that could be formed from happiness or anger, any emotion if you felt it strongly enough, and Connor was feeling it all. Shirts came peeling off so fast that they'd wasted no time diving back towards each other, aching to feel skin on skin, both red in the face and nearly panting. It was like music when they'd reach this point, in tune with the motions, rhythmic with the way that their bodies danced against each other despite the darkness, despite the fact that they'd been apart for longer that ever before.

 

So maybe the bedroom was too personal, but that didn't matter now. The floor worked just fine.

 

-

 

They'd almost laughed, because it just hadn't been that good in ages. Even before they'd broke up, before Oliver was ever diagnosed, the night they'd met- it just might've been the best they'd had. There was a common understanding that make-up sex was better than any other, but Connor wasn't sure they'd made up, if only just for the night.

 

The sky over the horizon had begun to brighten with hues of orange and pink, and the clock above the stove that they'd been ignoring flashed five in the morning. Lying back on the carpet, side by side, they stared up at the ceiling for a moment, hands not held but it felt as though they should've been. Both completely spent and caught in a bliss that would surely fade as soon as reality set back in.

 

Out of the side of his eye, Connor sheepishly watched Oliver smiling absently at what he assumed was a memory of fifteen minutes before, wiping the sweat from his brow and trying to steady his breath. It took all that he had not to roll to his side and kiss him, softly and with no ulterior motives, just because that’s what the moment called for. The moment, however, was only calling for one thing- they're night to come to an end.

 

It'd almost been perfect.

 

"That nurse, doctor, whatever- you like him?"

 

The subject caused Oliver's smile to wash right from his face, sitting up and looking back to where Connor was acting casual, arms crossed behind his head, displaying a questionable curiosity. It was almost as though he was indifferent about whatever the answer might be, but neither thought that to be true.

 

"That's seriously what you're going to say?" There was a hint of anger in his tone, as if Oliver would've been happy to pretend for a while longer, pretend as though what had just happened was completely normal. He turned away and stared out the window, responding with a harshness that Connor wasn't entirely expecting, "So what if I do?"

 

"I get it," Connor pushed himself up, leaning on the palms of his hands, watching as Oliver hastily pulled his t-shirt back over his head. A dry laugh slipped off his tongue, sarcasm dripping from ever word, "I mean, he's cute. Not my type, but cute."

 

While he'd been bracing himself for disastrous backlash, Oliver didn't even shoot a hateful look over his shoulder, simply continued to stare out the window. Something inside of Connor sparked alive with high hopes, because there was a possibility that he'd just realized that this wasn't how it should be, and maybe he wasn't the only one who didn't want to leave.  For a moment, he didn't dare to even breathe- this could've been it.

 

"Connor, I-"

 

A phone went off before Oliver could finish, but it seemed more like a bomb and Connor should've known to wait for its detonation.

 

The ring tone sounded twice before Connor noted the sympathy over Oliver's restless state, and suddenly, he was furious. It was all at once that he'd become this pitied, jealous ex-boyfriend, broken hearted and crawling back with every chance that he'd been offered. Without waiting another minute, Connor turned to hide how red his face had grown while shoving his legs through the sleeves of his wrinkled pants, "Go- get it. I better go."

 

From where he'd reached for the doorknob, Connor could faintly hear Oliver calling him back but his ears were ringing now, louder than he thought possible, louder than he could deal with. Leaving behind a slamming door, he'd rushed down the hallway that he was almost positive went on for miles. He'd forgotten how to walk, everything was shaking, the world felt off centre and tilted.

 

Time passed both miraculously fast and strenuously slow, and then he'd made it back to his car and the keys were on the floor mat and there'd been no air inside his vehicle and Connor couldn't breath. It'd been years since he'd cried more than a stray tear, but he wasn't sure this was crying.

 

This was gasping for breath while he bashed his fists against the dashboard, this was sobs that turned into screams, clutching to the fabric of the car seat as he wasn't sure if his heart was about to stop. It was panic like he'd been tied to a train track, like he'd been tossed in front of a moving car; Connor didn't understand, couldn't comprehend why every muscle in his body was clenched and tight, why his stomach ached as though he'd swallowed a brick.

 

"Fuck, fuck."

 

Choking on thin air, his lungs still weren't working right, convulsive cries breaking through and nearing torture- this was what Connor had been denying himself, all those weeks of waiting for a call, of denying the truth, this is what had been building. It was as though a dam had been broken and let loose, and every broken dream, crushed hope, sadness, regret, resentment, it'd been set free. 

 

All of that pessimism that he'd continually shoved down was caving in on him now like it were the Johnstown Flood, and Connor was fighting beneath twenty million tons of rain water, drowning with nothing to grab on to and no one to help. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i switched POV for a chapter pls dont abandon me

Some tend to confuse déjà vu with the concept of doing the same thing twice, but those that truly experience it know that it isn't a circumstance, it's a distinctly well-known feeling. It was a state of mind that you'd been in once before, the same rush of emotion hitting you in a way that it had once already, that was so memorable that you couldn't miss it coming around a second time.

 

A loud slam echoed through the apartment as the door shut tight and Oliver's head spun instantly with horrid familiarity. That wave of recollection came in the form of a devastating loss, as though half of his soul had been stolen before he'd had the chance to guard himself, before he'd taken a moment to prepare for the destruction of everything that he was.

 

"Connor," Oliver had called out to nothing but empty space, and was answered by the sound of hurried traces through the hallway, quieter with each step. The second time should've been easier to cope with, he should've known what to do by now, what he wanted to do; instead, once more, he was caught. Stuck between the chase, a chase he so desperately wanted to pursue, and some sense of pride that he'd been strong enough to let Connor go when he wanted to leave, accept that he'd made a mistake and live with the consequences.

 

For the first time in months, Oliver began to consider the possibility that maybe the consequences didn't have to look like this.

 

Bad karma had shown up in human form, gift wrapped in a light blue hospital uniform and a handsome smile, wanting to take him out on actual dates and bring him flowers before dinner. Yet, each time the phone rang with Noah's name filling the screen, Oliver never found himself happy, excited, nervous- he felt, for a better lack of term, nothing at all. In all the time they'd spent together, butterflies had never spread chaos through his insides, no flutter beneath his ribs, no quickness to his pulse. That was his karma- the man he'd always wanted, idealized and imagined, put smack dab in front of him with a heart so big that it could smother someone, and Oliver was sick.

 

Sick because this wasn't what he'd wanted, wasn't who he'd fallen for, wasn't who he pictured when he closed his eyes and kissed his lips, held his hand, touched his skin. It was always, constantly and endlessly, Connor Walsh.

 

That didn't change the wretched truth that lonesome was an evil that Oliver couldn't fight alone, and Noah made it so that he didn't have to. Love wasn't necessary for companionship, for a distraction from the way that he'd been left with an inkling of who he'd been before, just a single star of the constellation that he and Connor had formed together.

 

"Noah," Oliver's voice was hoarse, panicked and restless, and the phone nearly slipped from his fingers while he stared at the closed door, "Sorry- was in the shower."

 

It was easier to pretend that this was working when Noah played dumb, acted oblivious, refused to see that Oliver was so clearly absent in all that they did. Strength in blindness seemed so unchallenging for him to portray, "Morning, you sound sick. Are you okay? You do know, I am a nurse-"

 

"I think, maybe I've just come down with a bug," Oliver lied, and he wasn't completely sure why but his eyes were still on the door and his feet were moving now, no longer glued to the floor. Faking a cough, he added, "Don't worry about picking me up, alright? I might just call in."

 

"Your boss has been on your ass lately," Noah sounded disappointed in a way that a parent would encourage you to stop skipping classes, with a tone both disapproving and caring, concern that he didn't ask for; Oliver's boss hadn't called him in weeks, "Are you sure you-"

 

"Really," Oliver was shoving his toes into sneakers, fiddling to even keep the phone to his ear. There it was, that thundering beneath his chest, a rushing hurricane of passion and rage and every emotion caught in-between catching his breath and reminding him of what it meant to feel, "I'll call you later on, alright?"

 

There probably would've been some sweet goodbye, but Oliver was ending the call, throwing the phone down on the end table and grabbing for his coat instead. Every secret meeting, every silenced confession and all the hushed words- they'd been holding back, he'd been stifling it down for Connor's sake, for the sake of brevity.

 

With everything unsaid boiling over as though he was a kettle that had been left on for two minutes too long, Oliver found himself nearly sprinting through the halls, tripping over his unlaced shoes. Each step down was accompanied by the daunting thought that crowded his mind- was any of this mutual? It was as though he couldn't breath without Connor, like kissing him was like coming up from the water and every time he wasn't there, Oliver was drowning- that didn't mean he wasn't drowning alone.

 

In his wild imagination, each time they met was an hour or two to pretend that he hadn't sent everything off the tracks, that he hadn't ruined the future they'd planned or torn apart the dreams they'd built together. In Connor's mind, he could only assume it was a minute of relief before the realization that it was he who'd caused the break up, that sex was all they had in common now, all that they could manage without arguments.

 

That didn't stop him from barreling down four flights of stairs, his heart pounding so viciously that it was in danger of breaking a rib. As soon as he'd pushed opened the front doors of his building, he was searching frantically for Connor's van; tinted windows didn't stop him from recognizing the vehicle in amidst dozens of others, and although his knees threatened to buckle and leave him crumbled on the cement, and how it all seemed so naïve, Oliver still hadn't turned back.

 

"Connor."

 

The glass was dark, but closer now and Oliver could see that Connor was turned away, hiding his face from view, staring out the driver's side.

 

"Connor? I just want to talk-"

 

A loud click suggested he'd unlocked the doors and Oliver took an unsteady breath in before he reached for the handle, pulling back with fingers as shaky as his voice. The car radio was playing on a low volume, and Connor lifted a sleeve to his face before he turned.

 

There was a bright red rim tracing his dark eyes, a swell to blushing skin. The hair that he'd always kept so neat was tangled as though he'd been clutching his head to his knees, running fingers through that were now curled into tight fists, as though it were the only regulation of his composure. Every part of him wanted to comfort, but there was a wall of censorship between the two that he didn't know how to break down, didn't know if Connor wanted to keep it intact.

 

A still moment passed, Oliver trapped in a quiet confusion, before the other had managed to clear the lump from his throat and that mask of casual indifference was lifted back over his expression, "Talking isn't really our forte lately."

 

Speaking had been reserved for their late night phone calls, and the hours after that seemed more like minutes when it had come to. It was during those hours that he bit his tongue, replaced his 'I love you' with moans of Connor's name, 'I miss you,' and 'I need you,' changed into begging for more, for everything that he had to offer. It was odd to think now that he couldn't remember the last time they'd told each other such things. When they'd been together it'd become so casual that it was more so a habit, goodbye the same as I love you, a kiss the same as a smile, like they'd be together for the rest of their lives.

 

"Yeah," A sigh followed his delayed response, and it was clearly not that Connor was appreciating it but Oliver was staring, couldn't look away, couldn't stop following the lines and curves of his face with a wish that he'd cherished it all more when the time was theirs, when they'd had all the time in the world.

 

"That guy, on the phone," Connor's eyes were glued to where his fingers were now wrapped restlessly around the bottom of the steering wheel, tight lipped and words laced with bitterness, "You- you've been lying to him, yeah?"

 

"Yeah."

 

The guilt picked away at Oliver's mind as it had each time before, but it wasn't so simple to give up a moment with Connor, and if a lie would get him there than he would lie until a mountain of deceit crushed him under its fabricated weight; Noah had become nothing but a buffer for when the isolation tore away his sanity, another reason for Oliver to lie sleepless at night, counting all the wrongs turns that he'd taken.

 

"I don’t get it," Frustration forced Connor to shake his head, eyebrows furrowed as though he might've still been holding back tears. Meeting Oliver's stare, it was though behind his eyes was a desperation for an answer, for something that might make this all more bearable, "You've got someone, someone who calls you at five in the morning and takes you out and makes you- makes you smile. Ollie, what the hell am I still doing here?"

 

"Don't you?" A crooked frown spread across Oliver's face, "Have someone- I mean."

 

"I, uh," Connor was stumbling over his own words, no longer confident nor casual, "Not really, not- not at all."

 

There was a responding silence that felt like an eternity, before a realization dawned on Oliver, one that he hadn't assumed possible. If there was an extent to the amount of guilt that one person could have on their chest, Oliver would've assumed he'd reached it until it became clear- Connor was waiting, in a way that only he could.

 

"Don't say it," Oliver's voice rose, anger lacing every syllable, "Don't tell me that you've been waiting for me, for _me_ , to come back to you. Because, if I told you how many times I typed out stupid, god damn letters, or recorded messages, or typed in your number and hung up-"

 

There was soft lips on his before he could finish a rant that hadn't been well prepared, and Connor's skin was still wet and he could feel it against his own, the warmth to his cheeks and the tremble of his hands wrapped around the back of his neck, pulling him in closer. Not a second later, Oliver was pushing against him, "You- you idiot, Connor."

 

He'd mostly been sad, guilty, and filled with remorse- it had been somewhat of Oliver's constant state since Connor had left with no explanation nor offer to talk, nothing even resembling closure. Now, however, he was furious. The car door swung open and he stepped out as though fresh air could make his entire world stop spinning, force this all to rationalize in a mind that was filled with nothing but confusion and rage.

 

The driver's side door shut and before Connor had even rounded the front of the vehicle, Oliver was blinking away tears blurring his vision and despite that his voice threatened to crack, his yells echoed the parking lot, "'It's over,' those are your words, not mine. And then, the bar, and again after that, and again and again. If you wanted this, me, then why'd you walk out?"

 

"Why did you decline my offer to Stanford?"

 

A few feet felt like miles between them, and Connor was staring up back at him with a loss of anger and resentment, as though now he'd been left with nothing but with genuine curiosity. The question was something, however, that Oliver asked himself from time to time. An honest explanation sat idle at the back of his mind, a theory he'd never delved too far into because it'd make denial harder if the truth rose to the surface.

 

It had to surface with time, and now seemed like a time better than any other.

 

"I was jealous," Oliver's volume had fallen to barely a mumble.

 

"Uh, of Stanford? Why didn't you just apply, Oliver, I've told you a dozen times you're smarter than most-"

 

 "Because of your job, and I was fired, and I wanted to work for Annalise but you wanted to move and I would've become your house-husband or whatever, and I wanted to be someone- Connor, I was a desk jockey, I still am," Ranting wasn't something Oliver did often, nearly breathless and unbothered by the tears pooling in his eyes, a fog lining the inside of his smudged lenses, "I go in everyday and I hate it. You and your team made me feel useful, needed. As soon as you were accepted, we'd move and I'd be nothing again."

 

A moment passed as Oliver stared down at the cement beneath his untied sneakers, awaiting for the inevitable and preparing himself to watch Connor leave for a third time, wondering if his heart could still shatter if the pieces hadn't even begun to mend.

 

"You weren't nothing," Connor hadn't left, hadn't moved, hadn't begun to yell or scream or storm back into his car and leave him standing absent in the middle of a parking lot; Oliver could sense his eyes on him, feel his warmth before they'd even met, the hint of possible forgiveness in his voice quite plausibly one of the sweetest noises he'd ever heard, "Ollie, you were everything. You- you're still everything."

 

If it were forgiveness, Oliver wasn't sure that he deserved it.

 

Just as Connor had begun to inch closer and prove his point, a voice called out from across the lot and they both looked to their right. Holding a bag of take-out cafe food in one hand and a large paper cup of hot coffee in the other, Noah was staring back as though he'd been forced to sit through the haunting scene of a horror movie, expression stricken as he looked from Connor to Oliver and back once more. Betrayal was tattooed across his face and it was an expression Oliver recognized, had once related too, and despised the knowledge that he'd came to cause it.

 

Neither spoke as Noah cleared his throat and let his glare settle like stone onto where Oliver stood frozen in metaphorical ice, tangled in a mess of his own bad decisions.

 

"I, uh- I brought you breakfast." 

 


End file.
